‘TIS THE SEASON TO BE WICKED

ED DEANGELIS

 

 

’Twas the day of Christmas, and all through the Marsh house a creature was stirring, one much louder and wickeder than a simple mouse.

 

“But, Mmooommm!” seven-year-old Ryan cried out in disappointment. It had happened again! Ryan stood next to a small, sparsely decorated, Charlie-Brown-looking Christmas tree. He was a pudgy little boy, stomach sticking out past the waistband of his white underpants, his plump angelic face crimson with anger.

“Please, baby, just calm down, I’m sorry Santa didn’t get you what you asked for.” His mother, Julie, sat on a large, brown leather sofa within her small home’s cozy living room. She was a slender woman, wrapped in an old, comfy pink fleece robe meant to keep out the frigid temperatures that came with the ice-cold winters in Pennsylvania. Blue eyes partly hidden by her brown, unkempt hair were wet from tears shed at her son’s behavior. Julie was in her early thirties, though her beautiful face showed signs of stress and age beyond that number, stress that had begun with joy seven years ago, and had not yet ceased.

“I... wanted... a new PlayStation 3! You promised if I was good, Santa would get me what I wanted this year. This isn’t what I wanted!” The little boy’s voice rose in pitch as his plump hands hefted the used game system. They shook with anger and effort as he hurled the refurbished PlayStation 3 toward the fireplace, the same place through which his terrible gift had arrived.

“That’s enough!” a deep voice called sternly from the kitchen as Ryan’s father, Mark, stepped in, eyes locked upon his son. His bushy black eyebrows furrowed. “If you don’t like the gifts Santa brought you, we can send them back to him, and you can have nothing!”

“It’s not fair,” Ryan blubbered now, snot running down his small, piggy nose, spittle spraying from his tiny, sodden mouth. “Santa did it again, Dad! Last year he didn’t get me anything I asked for. He used to, but now Santa hates me!”

His father’s threat fell on uncaring ears, for little Ryan did not want, nor care, about the sorry excuse for gifts that lay scattered about his bare feet.

“Ryan Marsh, I said that was enough. Get your butt up to your room. NOW!”

Ryan let out a little scream of contempt before kicking a small pile of used video games that lay in front of him, scattering them across the thick brown carpet. Some flew far enough that they landed on the small, decorative rug that the coffee table sat on, where Julie was sitting. He stomped past his parents, one angered, the other stunned, his small feet stomping hard upon the wooden stairs before he let out one last act of defiance. “I hate Santa!” The sound of his bedroom door slamming followed his shrill declaration.

Downstairs, Mark sighed. He sat down and reached out to draw Julie close to him for comfort. Mark felt her tremble as she sobbed silently. A few moments passed, her body finally stilled before a soft whisper passed her lips. “He’s getting worse, Mark... I don’t know what to do? We can’t afford toys like we used to since I lost my job, and no matter what we say or do, he doesn’t understand or care.”

“I know, baby, I know.” Mark‘s words of comfort seemed to have little effect on his distraught wife. “Don’t worry, baby, we'll figure something out. Plus, I am positive he’ll grow out of it. You know, I was a rather rotten child.” Mark chuckled softly at the memories his comment brought unbidden to his mind.

“You were never this bad, and you know it. Your mother told me that you were a brat, but you were nothing like Ryan. This has to get better, baby. I... we need him to grow up. I love our little boy, but we did wrong giving him everything that he wanted.”

His thoughts soon snapped back to here and now at his wife’s response.

“He will, sweetie, trust me. Now why don’t we open up our gifts? Maybe we can salvage what’s left of the day and have a slightly peaceful Christmas.”

As they opened their gifts, their son—the tiny terror—was forgotten. For a few hours, the parents celebrated Christmas with love and joy, and not with sadness and anger.

But for Ryan, there was no joy, only anger and the festering hate of a spoiled child spurned.

Santa is naughty and he must be punished. Ryan fumed while he sat in his massive bed, surrounded by countless toys, many having only seen a few minutes of play before being discarded.

“Next year, Santa is gonna learn what happens to people who get on my naughty list.”

 

 

The Year of Lessons

 

Tonight Santa will learn his lesson. I got a special trick, just for him, Ryan thought, as he skipped around the tree, delight in his eyes, but delight that was fueled by cruelty and the thought of retribution. He gathered from under the tree small bits of cotton fluff, laid there to resemble snow. He brought the layers of cotton fabric to the fireplace and laid them gingerly upon the brick. His hand went into the small pocket in his pajama bottoms. His fingers gripped tightly around a handful of small white marbles, a crappy gift Santa had brought him two years ago. They had been discarded at the back of his closet. But now, one of the very gifts Santa had brought him would be used to deliver his own punishment. The thought that Santa’s lesson for disappointing Ryan would be taught using his own crappy gifts pleased him immensely.

He sprinkled the marbles in the white cotton, making sure they were camouflaged within the fabric. Boy, is Santa in for a surprise when his fat butt comes down this chimney. This will let him know I mean business. He better leave the shitty gifts in his bag. Used gifts are for poor people, not for little princes like me. A soft chuckle left his little, red lips. It was not a kind sound; it was filled with the joy of someone who was sure he were going to inflict pain, and he savored the thought.

“Sweetie, what are you doing?”

Ryan jerked, startled from his devilish thoughts.

His mother had watched him lay the cotton faux snow in front of the fireplace from the staircase leading to the second floor. She made her way downstairs, her body once again wrapped in her favorite pink fleece robe. A look of confusion with a hint of concern knitted upon her features.

Ryan turned and smiled brightly. “I’m just getting things ready for Santa, Mommy!”

Julie sighed, sadness creeping into her features. Her head shook, shoulders slumped. The thought and desire about chastising her son fluttered in her mind for a moment before they died. It wouldn’t do any good. Her son acted sweet, but that's all it really was—an act. She loved her child, but she and her husband, Mark, had spoiled him too much. And in doing so, they had overlooked what their little boy had become—what they had molded him into. Julie shook her head. She had to believe Mark. She had to trust that he had been like this when he was Ryan’s age, and soon enough her little boy would grow up like his father had.

“Go upstairs, my little prince. It’s late and Santa won’t come if you're awake.”

“Of course, Mommy. I don’t want Santa to skip over me. Not this year.” Ryan forced a wide, disingenuous smile onto his face and nodded his head enthusiastically.

He scuttled past his mother, little eyes alight with glee, as thoughts of Santa slipping and falling danced in his head. Ryan joyfully climbed the stairs, his enthusiasm showing as he jumped from one step to another. Tonight’s the night! No more bad gifts for me on Christmas. Santa will slip and fall and understand that he needs to give me what's on my list!

Julie studied her son as he did what he was told, for once. She looked at his face as he turned at the top of the stairs. He did not even look at her, but instead stood staring at the trap he had set. A manic smile spread across his normally sweet features. That grin, along with her son’s baneful stare, sent a chill through her body, despite the warm robe that was wrapped around her. She could not imagine what was going on in her little boy’s head, and secretly, deep down, she did not want to know, and was glad she didn’t. Ignorance was a blessing.

Once she heard the door to her son's room shut, Julie turned and made her way over to the fireplace. Squatting down, she began to pick through the cotton, finding marble after marble. She had to really search. Ryan had planted dozens of marbles that were well hidden. But they needed to be picked up, otherwise Ryan would probably throw a tantrum, flinging the faux snow and marbles all over the place. Random marbles upon the floor, scattered to places unknown, were dangerous. So focused was she on her task of cleaning up her son’s mischievous antics, along with the whirlwind of thoughts in her head, she failed to notice her husband approach her. His calloused hands touched her shoulders gently. She jerked, releasing a soft squeak of surprise.

“Baby, what are you doing?” Mark’s bewildered tone matched the scrunched up eyebrows as he tried to process what the heck his wife was doing squatting in front of their fireplace.

“Why is some of the tree basing ripped off and placed around the bottom of the fireplace?” Mark’s bewildered tone soon changed, filling with a weariness and a hint of annoyance. He knew who had done it, just not why. “In the name of God, what is he up to now?”

“I think he’s trying to trick or punish Santa for not getting him gifts that he wants. He tore off some of the fake snow you bought. He placed it here to hide these.” Julie held out her hand, and small white marbles clacked together softly.

“I’m just picking them up before they get scattered and one of us slips.” Julie reached down, lifting the faux snow and giving it a shake. Seeing no marbles rolling here or there, she poured the marbles into the pocket of her robe and stood.

“I better throw these away before—”

“No, sweetie, give them to me. I have a better idea. We need to make sure he understands you can’t fool Santa, or else he might just keep trying. Hold on just a moment.” Mark stepped away, moving to the family room. He returned quickly coming back with an old candy dish they had gotten years ago. It had sat unused, until now.

“We’re going to put the marbles in the candy dish along with a little note from Santa himself, letting Ryan know he can’t trick Saint Nick.”

“Sweetie, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. You know how Ryan is. That might cause a... tantrum.” Julie’s body visibly cringed as she uttered that last word.

Mark could hear the pensiveness in his wife’s voice, but he brushed aside her concern with his own certainty.

“He’s going to be upset regardless. And I would rather just deal with his normal Christmas tantrum, with a little added because of his failed trick, than have to deal with whatever booby-traps he plans for next year if he thinks this one was just too simple. It’s already exhausting enough dealing with him. I don’t want or need to tread carefully through my own house.”

“OK, baby, if you're sure.” Julie pulled out the marbles and dropped them into the old candy dish and set them on the mantle of the fireplace.

It did not take Mark long to come back with some old parchment printer paper he’d stashed away in his home office. Written upon it in flowing script was the simple statement:

 

You can’t trick me.

 

“I... I don’t know, baby, I really think that this is going to cause more harm than good.” That pensive look was on Julie's face once more, lips pursed together as she struggled with herself. She wanted to believe her husband, but tomorrow was already going to be a hard day. It always was. But she loved Mark and had to believe him when he said he had been like this when he was a kid. He had to know what to do, because she realized deep down she had long ago given up the idea that she knew how to properly handle her own child. She had tried spanking and whipping, and that didn’t work. It just made him resentful. They had tried taking away the few toys he did love, and in response, he stole her jewelry and hid it until his toys were returned. Yelling didn’t work; physical punishment didn’t work; and taking away his things most certainly didn’t work. All she had left was the thought, the hope, that soon it would be better. Soon Ryan, her little prince, would, as Mark had when he was growing up, decide he was tired of getting into trouble and being punished and would start to behave.

Mark placed the bowl of marbles and the note on the mantle above the fireplace. He turned and made his way back to his Julie who had sat down on the sofa. Her distant eyes still flickered with a lingering sadness.

“We need to be strong, and soon enough everything will be fine. I know he will get better.” Mark wrapped his muscled arm around her and placed a soft kiss upon her cheek. “Now, it’s Christmas, and Santa has asked me to give you a special gift.” Mark winked softly as his free hand slipped down to caress Julie’s thigh.

Julie shivered, her once distant eyes suddenly snapped upward, locking with her husband’s, a mischievous twinkle appearing in them.

“So why don’t you run upstairs while I grab the gifts. Then Santa will be upstairs to give you your special gift.” Mark’s tone deepened as he leaned down, his breath caressed the pale flesh of his wife’s neck. His warm lips pressed softly. He could feel her pulse quicken before he pulled away.

Julie tensed at the kiss, a soft sultry little purr escaped her lips. “Oh, Santa baby!” She giggled as she made her way up the stairs. The love and evident desire showed by Mark always put her in a better mood.

Mark smirked, watching her hurry up the stairs, his eyes locked on her energetic steps. Well, at least Christmas is going to start off well, Mark mused as he headed to the back of the house and down to the basement. They had stored the gifts down here this year only because Ryan never went into the basement. There was no reason for him to. There was nothing he was interested in down in the basement, just the washer and dryer and old dusty boxes. But behind those were three piles of gifts, each pile wrapped in different paper. The largest, of course, was Ryan’s. His always had to be the largest.

He carried them up the old, wooden basement stairs, which groaned with each carefully placed step. Before reaching the living room and placing them around the tree, he made sure Julie’s and his own pile were kept well away from Ryan’s pile. If they were too close, Ryan would open them as well as his own.

Mark smiled as he glanced around the dimly lit room filled with the colors of the season: greens, reds, blues, gold, and silver. They covered the brick walls of their living room, giving the appearance of looking through a Christmas kaleidoscope. The tree looked beautiful; it was much better than previous years. They had managed to find a tree lot with some decent stock left the week before and had gotten a wonderful discount.

Mark’s smile grew as he beheld the beauty of his small home, and his eyes were drawn to the mantle above the fireplace, where Julie’s newest decoration rested: a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, with a little old driver who looked so lively and quick. Ah good old St. Nick, Mark mused as he began to count the reindeer, humming to himself as childhood poems filled his mind. Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen! Mark was always surprised and delighted how such simple phrases could make him feel so happy and seem to make the holidays so much brighter.

But all of this—Mark glanced around, sorrow replacing his recent happiness—all of these things, all the memories they could invoke would do nothing if Ryan didn’t behave.

Mark’s head lowered and his hands cupped together as he prayed.

“Please, God, let him behave tomorrow. Let us finally have a nice Christmas together.”

He knew his wife could not take much more. Year after year, she seemed to become more beaten and worn. Their little boy had been a blessing when he was born, but had become a terror as he grew. Mark knew it was partly his fault. He had spoiled him early on, and in doing so, their little boy had come to expect everything to be handed to him. Julie told him he was descended from royalty, and he now thought of himself as a prince—and princes got whatever they wanted— even from Santa. It would be easier if they just told Ryan that there was no Santa.

But Julie didn’t want that. She clung to the memories of her childhood, of wonderful nights of being so excited you almost couldn’t go to sleep, and mornings filled with the gathering of family to celebrate the birth of Jesus, along with the treasures that Santa had brought.

So far, those Christmases had escaped their family. He wanted to give her that Christmas, and for that reason he had not fought her on ending this childish fantasy for their son. It would end soon enough. Ryan was getting older, and sooner or later he would find out. Mark hoped for sooner—for all their sakes.

“Baaaaaby,” a soft voice called to him from the top of the stairs.

Mark’s thoughts suddenly derailed, switching to a much more pleasant track. He smiled warmly, his own eyes filled with that mischievous twinkle. Mark hurriedly made his way up the stairs to his waiting wife. “Ho, Ho, Ho, here comes Santa!”

 

*

 

The following day was one of confusion for Mark and Julie. Ryan had come bounding down the stairs, his eyes wide with excitement, but they had not even looked at the tree, nor the gifts below it. Instead, they first focused on the fireplace. He had hurriedly made his way over to inspect the note, along with the marbles. They waited for the worst, but he said nothing. Rather, his cute, chubby face had gone blank, eyes locked on the marbles. Slowly, a look of contemplation crept into his features. But no tantrum. The rest of the day had been strange, peaceful, and odd as Ryan opened gift after gift, the look of intense contemplation now permanently etched on his features. It had been pleasant, although disturbing. Christmas finally ended, as Ryan headed for the stairs. His gifts lay strewn around the tree, not a single one taken with him.

Julie spoke out finally. The uneasy peace nagged at her; something was wrong.

“Baby, are you okay?”

Ryan turned, his eyes focused intensely at the fireplace, his voice toneless.

“Oh yes, Mommy, I’m... fine. I underestimated Santa. That was my mistake... mine, and mine alone.”

And with that, Ryan turned and made his way slowly into his room, his scattered gifts left untouched upon the living room floor where they had been unwrapped.

Mark’s face beamed, a wide grin upon his rough features, his voice jubilant.

“See, baby? I told you he would get better, and that the note would work. No tantrum. No yelling. I know he wasn’t happy, but he handled it better than any other years.”

He leaned in to kiss her cheek, his arm wrapping around her, pulling her small frame close.

Julie looked down in her lap, unresponsive to Mark’s kiss and words. Her features were troubled. Finally with a deep sigh, she gazed up into her husband’s eyes.

“If you say so. Just... something seems wrong.”

Mark shook his head and he chuckled. “Don’t worry, sweetie, I have a feeling things are going to start getting better from here on out.” He planted a soft kiss on his wife’s cheek as he helped her up. Their fingers interlaced tenderly as they went upstairs. Julie gazed at her husband, a smile once more appearing on her face when she saw his own smile. He was excited and hopeful. If only she could feel like that all the time, but she couldn’t. Something was wrong with Ryan. She couldn’t prove it, but she felt it. But those cares, at least for the moment, were wiped away as her husband’s lips suddenly found hers. And the night truly ended wonderfully.

 

 

The Year of Hope

 

The stockings in the Marsh house were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. Most children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads. One child was not nestled; instead he paced back and forth, his young mind awhirl with the fear that indeed, St. Nicholas would soon be here.

“I’m not ready, not enough time,” Ryan ranted in hushed tones. His eyes constantly glanced to the clock. Time was racing; it was almost midnight now. His parents were in their room watching TV. If he did not think of something quick, Santa would come. And if he was awake, he would get nothing. But if he did not figure out a way to teach Santa the error of his ways, he would get something almost as terrible as nothing. He would get bad gifts, used things, worn things, and old things. The cruel joke that Santa played was bringing new clothes, something he knew Ryan despised.

But he knew from last year that trying to trick Santa did not work. He had found the marbles, had even placed the note for Ryan to find, shaming him in front of his parents. Santa had made him look like a fool, but Ryan should have known better. Now he did. He was a year older now, and he was learning. Santa had magic, and magic was something Ryan could not yet figure out how to counter. He paced for a while longer. Each minute that ticked by made his pulse quicken and his brain work desperately faster. Ryan’s frantic pacing halted suddenly, his body rigid as an alien thought leapt into his mind.

If I can’t trick Santa, and I can’t hurt Santa, perhaps I can do something for him? These thoughts were strange, and it took Ryan a few moments to develop them, but soon enough a smile crept onto his face, and he jumped into action. Leaving his room, he tiptoed downstairs. His parents were still up. He could hear their muffled voices mingling with the TV in their room. To his annoyance and worry, the stairs creaked as he crept over them, each creak making him wince. If they were alerted to his movements, he would be in trouble, and they would foil his brilliant plan, his chance to finally have a good Christmas.

The lights from his Christmas tree suffused the room in a plethora of blues, reds, and greens, all festive, joyful colors, but the beauty of this tranquil scene was lost to Ryan. All he cared about was that Santa had not yet come. He had not yet lost his chance. As he moved to the tree, he stopped. In all his excitement from his new idea, he had not yet thought of what he could bribe Santa with. A memory, long since forgotten, entered his mind.

A week or so ago, he had this same strange idea: giving something to Santa to make him happy. It had occurred at the local grocery mart, when he had been dragged away from his video game because his Mom was lazy and wanted help shopping. He had seen rows upon rows of new cookies, with a small hand-written sign by the grocer, reminding him to not forget the cookies for Santa. Perhaps, Santa would want a different kind of cookie. His mother always bought the same brand of cookie, whether it was Christmas or not. They were a brand called Enjoy Life, some crappy off brand. Ryan had known at that moment, that if he could get Santa something different, some mainstream cookie, maybe, just maybe that would help.

But his mother had ruined everything—like she almost always did. He had pointed at some peanut cookies, only to be told, in a very harsh manner, that those cookies made Santa unhappy. This was all her fault. He had made a simple suggestion to her, that could help make him happy, and all she did was get angry and tell him no. He had forgotten about this until now. He could have had a week or so to think of what else to get Santa, but no, now he had mere minutes. His mother was the one who had caused this problem, so she would have to pay to fix it, but what did she have that Santa would want?

“Jewelry!” The thought leapt into Ryan’s mind with such intensity that he couldn’t help but say it out loud. His excited utterance made him flinch, and he quickly glanced up at the top of the stairs, but to his relief he neither heard nor saw any signs that his parents had heard him. Ryan spoke in faint tones to himself, it always helped him to think outload. “Ok, where is Mom’s jewel...” His gaze once more went to the stairs. His little fists clenched and his feet stomped the carpeted floor.

Mom kept her jewelry upstairs, hidden somewhere. She had moved it after he had taken her ruby bracelet and emerald necklace and hidden them. But he had only done that in retaliation. She had taken some of his toys because of an issue with another kid at school. She had soon given his toys back once she realized the errors of her ways and what her mistake was going to cost her. But afterwards, once he had returned her jewelry, she had taken them out of her jewelry box and hidden them elsewhere. Ryan shook his head. He had to focus on the matter at hand. He only had a little while before Santa came. Ryan began to pace again, pondering the subject of what could he get of any value. His eyes searched around the color-filled room until they landed on the perfect solution: His mother’s purse sat there on the hutch against the wall.

Ryan tore through the purse after he had retrieved it from the hutch. Finally, after combing through tons of random junk, he found his mother’s wallet. Opening it, Ryan frowned, as he found only twenty-three dollars. Exasperation filled Ryan’s voice, his eyes downcast. His little hands tightened, crumpling the cash. “It will have to do.”

He quickly made his way over to the small plate of cookies and glass of milk. He placed the money down and quickly smoothed the wrinkled bills as best he could, before putting them under the glass of milk. He knew Santa could not miss them there. He then ran into the kitchen, grabbing a marker and sheet of paper left next to the fridge for his parents to leave notes to one another. Quickly, he scribbled:

Money is for you Santa

Please give me good gifts

I am sorry for marbles last year

It was my parents’ idea

 

He slipped the note between the cookies and milk. Ryan rubbed his hands together, a small devilish grin on his face. Little joy-filled skips took him up the stairs, his previous worried thoughts of being silent now replaced with anticipation for what would no doubt be a mountain of wonderful gifts, just for him. His door slammed loudly just as his parents opened theirs.

Mark stuck his head outside of his room, looking around. He had heard the loud footfalls on the stairs and wondered what his son was up to. A soft sigh escaped his dry, cracked lips. He looked back at Julie, who had just finished wrapping the last of the gifts. There were not many this year, but their little boy’s behavior this season had not been as bad as previous years, and this gave them hope that he would not be too upset.

“Well, he’s in his room now, but I have no idea what he was doing.” Mark turned and began to gather the assorted, scattered gifts lying on the bed. Once gathered, he carefully made his way out of the room, stopping only for a moment at the doorway.

“Be right back, babe. Hopefully, there are no surprises this year.” With that thought in mind, Mark made his way slowly down the stairs and into their festively lit living room. After a careful and thorough look around, Mark saw nothing out of place. He quickly went about separating the gifts and placing the largest pile in the front so Ryan would see it when he ran down the stairs. They had always done that.

Mark was finally finished setting out the gifts and was about to head upstairs when he remembered his favorite treat.

“Time to get me some cookies and milk.” A joyful tone filled his voice. He was a fan of sweets, as was his son, but Julie did not allow many confections in the house. But as he approached the tray to indulge in his sweet tooth, his joy became confusion. His brow furrowed when he saw the crumpled bills placed under the milk, along with a note. He reached out, picking up the note and read the sloppy hand-writing. Then his eyes glanced upward and his mind tried to process this all.

His gaze fell upon Julie’s purse, lying on the large oak hutch, its contents disheveled after having been hastily jammed back inside. Her wallet was at the top of that pile, still unzipped. Mark’s face reddened, his hand clenched, ripping some of the paper as it crumpled in his massive, calloused hand. Mark spun around, the large vein on his forehead pulsed prominently, both hands now clenched. He had had enough. Not only had Ryan stolen money from his mother, but then he’d tried to bribe Santa with it. This was going to end now!

“I am gonna spank his ass until he...” Rage melted as his anger met a force it could not overcome or ignore. Julie stood on the stairway. She had seen the whole thing and was shedding large tears.

“Just... please put the money back, baby. Please, it’s Christmas.”

Her voice so soft and sweet, yet so sad, had snuffed out his rage.

Julie had made her way slowly down the stairs as she spoke, and with her final words she reached her husband. Her small hands rested upon his. Her touch washed over him and his muscles relaxed. A deep breath that Mark had not even realized he had been holding was released. His chest ached.

Julie stretched up onto her tiptoes and kissed him ever so gently, her words, a hushed whisper, spread across his skin like a gentle summer breeze. “Please, baby, just put the money back and let it go.”

“Babe, I... we can’t let this go. He stole this money. He is trying to bribe Santa with it, for God’s sake.” Anger flared once more, struggling to stay alive inside of him. His wife’s mere presence quelled that attempted resurgence of rage. His body slumped slightly, but his face relaxed and a small smile appeared as he gazed into her eyes.

“Ok, I won’t say anything... or do anything to him... but Santa will.” He gave Julie a quick but loving kiss before he turned and gathered up the money.

“Go upstairs. I’ll be up soon. Santa has to leave our little boy a note, one I am sure will make it so he never does this ever again.”

Julie reached a hand out to stop him, but at the last moment hesitated and withdrew. She once again felt that gnawing in her gut, warning her that this was not a good idea. But she said nothing. Her husband knew what he was doing. She had to trust in that. He had been right about the note last year, despite her warning. This year, instead of trying to hurt, he had tried to steal and bribe. Stealing and then trying to bribe Santa was an improvement from trying to harm him, wasn’t it?

Julie banished her worries and made her way to her room, a small prayer sent heavenward as she lay down to rest. Please God, let everything go well tomorrow.

 

Stealing and bribery are naughty

No toys for you, Ryan

Santa

 

Little chubby hands gripped the unrolled parchment paper as Ryan read the note, his confusion evident on his face as he had run downstairs, only to freeze upon seeing such a small pile of gifts. The rolled up parchment had been set neatly on the tray with the empty milk glass and cookie crumbs. The note was dropped hastily, and Ryan lunged for his gifts. He did not open them, but shook each one. He had developed the ability years ago to be able to tell just by shaking a box if it had toys or clothes in it. One by one, he shook each box, grabbing more frantically for the next, when the one he held revealed it only had clothes. He hated clothes. And when the final box dropped from his little hands, Ryan sat there, a look of numb shock on his face. Santa had given him nothing but clothes. He had come into his home, eaten his cookies, drunk his milk, taken the money—and then punished him. Santa stole from him! He didn’t want the money, but he still took it, Santa was a thief—No, Santa was a Monster.

Julie and Mark watched as their son sat there amid a pile of unopened gifts. The toys they had bought were hidden in their closet. Mark had taken them back upstairs as punishment. But there was no screaming, no tantrums. Ryan just sat there, eyes blank, as he stared at the fireplace. The entire day had made Julie’s feelings from last night worse, her motherly instinct warning her that something was terribly wrong—and getting worse—but she did not know what. Her son was upset, but he had not screamed or thrown things, so that was good. Yet, she felt that gnawing in her gut, in her soul. And she could ignore it no longer once Ryan had stood and walked past her, his little body seeming to shake as if he was cold, while the room was nice and toasty.

“Baby, are you all right? I’m sorry Santa...” She paused to glare at her husband for a moment. “...didn’t leave any gifts. I am sure he will leave a lot next year to make up for it.”

Ryan turned suddenly, body whipping around faster than she would have thought possible. His response chilled her to her very core. She could hear the venom in her little boy’s words and saw a strange feverish look in his eyes.

“Santa... will pay. He will learn.” Ryan turned, and disappeared upstairs and into his room.

Julie and Mark held each other, her eyes locked upon the empty space where her little boy—her one and only child—had for a moment become something that terrified her. Mark’s normally confident gaze was shaken, eyes downcast, doubt filled him. Both parents sat silent, wondering the same thing. Was their son getting better with age... or getting much, much worse?

 

 

The Year of Joy

 

Julie walked slowly inside the local GIANT grocery store. With only a few days until Christmas, she needed to buy food for their dinner, before the store ran out of the food she knew Ryan would expect for his Christmas dinner. Most years, Christmas brought only sadness to Julie, thanks in part to the little terror that walked beside her. Her sweet boy Ryan. This year was different though. Julie walked with her back straight, a warm, almost infectious smile across her face. She felt the slightest bit of joy this season, and that joy brought along hope. Her little boy, Ryan, walked next to her, and this year had been the first of what she hoped would be many better years. Yes, her son still asked for things. Yes, he had his little tantrums, but his mind always seemed to be somewhere else, blunting his actions. She secretly hoped that he was finally growing old enough that they could have a good Christmas—like the ones she used to have as a child. Plus, her loving, but sneaky, husband had been in such high spirits the last few weeks. He was up to something, but she could not figure out what. But the fact that he seemed overly happy just added to the joy of the season, the first joy she had felt after many, many years.

New sneakers squeaked on the cold floor of the store while Ryan pondered and plotted. Another year had almost gone by, and soon enough he would have his revenge. He knew Santa had magic, but surely his magic had limits. Ryan planned to test those limits this year. But attempting to do so had been harder than he had expected. He had needed to keep his parents out of the loop. Too many times they had foiled his plans, scolding him on his ideas. How could they not understand his plight? They watched him suffer year after year at the hands of Stingy Claus, and yet they seemed apathetic to him. They were his parents, and they were meant to provide for him, to protect him and take care of him, till he no longer needed them. Most of the year they did a barely passable job, especially the last few years. But he could not really do anything about that. They were his parents and he needed the things they gave him.

Ryan meandered away from his mother, his thoughts turned toward the plastic containers down the next aisle. He always loved the free candy tubs in the store, all different candies he could just reach in and take. He walked up and frowned. There were different tubs now. Some still had candy, but the others had dried fruits and nuts. Disgusting! Pure revulsion masked his face, until, unbidden, a memory from a Christmas past slithered into his mind. A wide and devilish smile spread across his face, and he began to stuff his pockets full of the free gifts.

 

*

 

Joy had finally come to the tiny brick house during the harsh winter months. It was Christmas Eve and all was well. Young Ryan lay fast asleep, snuggled up in his bed; dreams of vengeance and blood danced in his head. His mother and father almost danced in their room, for news most wonderful had just been revealed.

“When did this happen?!” exclaimed Julie, her tiny body shaking with excitement that could be seen even through her favorite pink robe.

Mark stood tall and proud beside the massive pile of wrapped gifts he had brought up from the basement. “My promotion went through a few weeks ago, just in time for me to get my first check and the company’s holiday bonus. No more money worries, baby. No more bad Christmases.”

Mark and Julie embraced. Things were finally going to start getting better. Julie kissed her husband hard, lips pressing into his fever of growing desire. But she broke off the kiss with a sly smirk on her pouty lips.

“Why doesn’t Santa head downstairs and set up all the gifts. I’ll start filling the tub, and get his special gift all ready.” She winked as her pink robe slipped from her slender form, exposing her pale body as she swayed enticingly into the bathroom.

The sway of her hips, the smell of her perfume, and finally the sound of the tub turning on spurred Mark into action. Grabbing the gifts, he carried them downstairs. In total, it took him four trips. Each time he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, setting the piles of gifts next to one another before he separated them. Of course, Ryan’s pile was massive. The stack of wrapped gifts would tower over their growing son, a literal mountain of presents. Next, was his wife’s, her pile small, but the things inside he knew she would love. She had been wanting that diamond heart pendant for years, but he could never afford it. That was all going to change now. Only the best for the love of his life from now on. He frowned as he was placing the gifts, his eyes drawn to a spot on the carpet in front of the fireplace. It was hard to see with only the tree lights on, but he saw the outlines of clear tree ornaments. Mark wandered over, bending down to inspect the carpet and what lay there. There were a few of the clear ornaments from the tree, although the metal tops and hangers had been taken off.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Mark looked to his bare feet and was grateful he had not stepped on them. Suddenly Mark’s thoughts flashed back to an hour ago, when Ryan had gone downstairs to get a drink. He had taken a while and Mark had to yell at him to get his butt upstairs or Santa would pass over them.

“Christ, not again.” Mark groaned, as he began to pick up the small little traps his son had left. “Oh well, after this year there will be no more of this shit.”

Mark spent the next few minutes looking around, and to his horror, and slight amazement, he discovered a plethora of booby-traps. Mark found a string of fishing wire set along the fireplace, meant to trip Santa so he would fall on the ornaments, and small lumps under the false snow surrounding the tree indicated hidden mousetraps. Mark even found a bunch of his son’s small toy cars, which he had stopped playing with a long time ago, spread out around for some unknown reason on the carpet. He assumed they were meant to have Santa step on them and slip. He gathered all of these up, after disarming the mousetraps, of course. The loud snaps filled the mostly silent room when he set each one off. He put them all in a large pile in front of Ryan’s gifts. All except the ornaments, which he put away, not wanting to risk them getting broken and having shards of glass on the floor. Normally he would be furious. He should be furious. But the relief bestowed upon him by his promotion, and the hope, no, not the hope, the fact that he knew, that this would be the last year, calmed his hand. Plus, his wife was waiting for him. He quickly headed to his office, grabbed some parchment paper and scrawled a simple phrase onto it.

 

You win

 

Mark placed it on the pile of booby traps. Next, he grabbed his wife’s and his own pile. He placed Julie’s on the far side of the tree away from Ryan’s gifts. His own gifts he placed closer to Ryan’s, but he was less concerned if his got opened by his son. Now that this was all taken care of, he had something to take care of himself.

Mark turned and almost leapt to the stairway. But his body lurched to a stop when he passed the cookies. He chuckled warmly and reached down, speaking to the cookies, a villainous accent affecting his speech.

“Ahh, Mr. Cookies, you thought you could escape my notice. How wrong you were!”

And as quick as that, he reached down and gobbled up his favorite treat, leaving only a few uneaten bits lying scattered on the tray before gulping down the accompanying milk. His hunger sated, his mind once more turned to desires that were not yet sated. He stalled once again when he heard a crumbling sound, as part of Ryan’s gift-mountain collapsed. His haste to set it up had left it unstable. Mark turned to rebuild the mountain. He would just make it wider and not as tall. Ryan would still love it. As Mark leaned down to the fallen gifts, close to the tree, his eyes began to water. He stood to wipe them, and his throat began to itch. He was overcome by a sudden burst of hard deep coughs, which shook his body. The coughs passed a few seconds later, and Mark straightened himself.

“Whaa tthhhee helllll?” he spoke, his words slurred as his tongue began to swell. His watering eyes widened, and he frantically looked around. He was having an allergic reaction. How is this happening?! He needed his EpiPen! Mark stumbled toward the stairs, onto a portion of the floor that was covered by a thin autumn-colored decorative rug his wife had bought for their living room coffee table. That area had been absent of Ryan’s small cars for a reason. As Mark slammed his foot down onto the rug, the small thumb tacks that had been carefully hidden underneath pierced his foot, five in total embedded themselves into the sole of his foot, blood began to dribble out.

Mark toppled forward when his injured foot gave out under the sudden assault of small metal spikes. He tried to cry out, but a dull croak was the only thing that escaped. His throat was starting to close, breathing was becoming harder as Mark lay there upon the floor. But he was not a weak man, and his desire to live was stronger than the pain in his foot or his chest. He pushed himself up, the tacks pulling out of his foot as he drew away from the blood-soaked rug. Mark began to limp his way toward the stairs, a trail of bloody foot marks showing his agonizing progress. Then one by one, he hobbled his way up the stairs. His vision was getting narrow. His heart raced rapidly in his chest. He was not even sure if he was breathing anymore. He could feel his tongue swelling up so large it stuck obscenely out from between his lips. But he had to make it to his room—to Julie.

Despite the growing darkness and pain, he made it to the top of the stairs, his eyes mere slits on his bloated face. The door to his bedroom seemed like it was at the end of a long dark tunnel. But he knew he could make it. Just one foot in front of the other, that was all he needed to focus on.

So focused on the task at hand, Mark forgot about the damage done to his foot, the bleeding flesh could not handle the weight placed upon it anymore, and with a whispered cry of anguish his foot gave out, slipping on the blood that still poured from the punctures. Mark began to fall backwards. His last thoughts before his vision went dark and his mind shut off, were of his wife, and her beautiful come-hither eyes.

Julie had just finished filling the massive tub with hot steaming water, when from out in the hallway there arose such a clatter. She sprang out of the bathroom to see what was the matter. Away to the stairway she flew like a flash, robe tied around her with a long pink sash. The flicker of red, blue, and green tree lights filled the room below. And what to her horror-filled eyes did appear?

Nothing short of the sprawled body of her husband. His face swollen, eyes almost shut, and his tongue protruding from his mouth. She screamed, a deep soul-wrenching wail of terror and grief. She had seen this before, long ago, when they were first dating: his allergy. She sprinted, not toward him, but toward the small black case he kept in his dresser. Within seconds, she had the Epipen in hand, her mind and body focused on one task: Save Mark. In her crazed state, Julie’s rational thought process was ignored. Her husband was in danger and nothing else mattered. She jumped down the last few steps to land next to him. She heard and felt her ankle break, but the pain did not come. She was too focused, and the flood of chemicals in her body kept the pain away. She collapsed next to Mark and slammed the needle into his thigh, injecting the medicine into his system.

Once the needle was empty, she left it in him, and her hands reached up to cup his face, to shake him, to scream at him to fight, to not leave her alone. Only then, once she had given him the medicine that would save his life, did she notice his glossed-over eyes, and the strange angle his head was bent at. The tortured cry that ripped from Julie’s throat would have rivaled a banshee’s wail. She lay atop Mark, slender arms wrapping around him, clinging to his still-warm body.

“Mommy?”

The words pierced Julie’s grief when she heard her son. She looked up, tears pouring from her beautiful eyes. Ryan had wandered from his bed after hearing all the commotion. He looked confused, but excited, as he made his way down the stairs.

“Did I get him? Did I get Santa?” He stopped and frowned, seeing the body of his father laying there. His head tilted in slight confusion. “Why is Daddy down...?”

“Baby, please get to the phone and call 911. Your father and I are hurt. Hurry, baby!”

But Ryan’s frown just deepened; that look of confusion on his face, intensified.

“Why are you and Daddy down here? You’re not supposed to be down here!” His little voice rose in anger. “The booby traps were meant for Santa!” His shrill voice grew higher as it filled with more rage. “I spent all year planning the traps, placing the thumbtacks, the cars, the ornaments. I even gathered small crumbs of peanuts from the store and hid them in the cookies because you told me peanuts make Santa unhappy!” Ryan stomped his little foot right in a small puddle of his father’s blood. His face flushed and little fists balled tight.

Julie was frozen, her mind assaulted by her little boy’s words—and actions. She temporarily froze, unable to process the horrors that were being piled into her mind and soul.

“You and Dad always mess things up. You always cheat me...” Ryan’s rant trailed off as the gleam of presents caught his eye. The gleaming colors from the tree reflected off a massive pile of gold and green wrapped gifts: his gifts. Without another word or a thought of his parents, Ryan ran down the steps. His father was in the way, so Ryan stepped on him, his little blood-covered foot leaving a bright red mark upon Mark’s white T-shirt. Julie reached up, her mind and senses still numb from the horror of the night. She tried to feebly grab him, one hand reaching up shakily as he passed by her. Ryan smacked it away as one would an annoying bug.

He stared at the gifts, and the way the wrapping paper reflected the light. Then he saw the note. Reaching down, he saw the simple admission of defeat from Santa. A maniacal laugh of triumph erupted from him as he danced wildly around the tree—like a pagan of old. Christmas had become a joyous time for him once again. Ryan began to tear into the gifts, the sound of his mother’s weeping eventually brought her a slight glance from Ryan. She always had to ruin things. He had finally beaten Santa, and all she could do was cry. It was times like this he wished he had a better family, one who truly cared about him.

As his gaze turned back to his pile of gifts, some still unopened, he spied the small pile of his father’s gifts. Crawling over, he grabbed them, and dragged them over to his pile, whispering cheerfully to himself as he did so, “Merry Christmas to me, and to me a wonderful night.”